Crimson Day
by The Walking Daryl
Summary: My dad always told me to stay away from the Winchesters. He said they weren't good people and they'd always find a way to screw you over. Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong. There's not much to say about my family. My father took off to Bangladesh after a monster and hasn't been around in a year and my mum has been in hell since I was ten. Who's more reliable?
1. Chapter 1

_My dad always told me to stay away from the Winchesters. He said they weren't good people and they'd always find a way to screw you over. Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong. There's not much to say about my family. My father took off to Bangladesh after a monster and hasn't been around in a year and my mum has been in hell since I was ten. Who's more reliable?_

He was on this case for nearly a month, tracking down a rather powerful demon who was taking down virgins. How cliché, right? Live up to the demon folk lore. Fourteen men and women (Shocker, right? Men, too.) have been slaughtered so far. They all were hung by their neck by an iron chain from trees with their bottom half below them, guts spilling out everywhere. It was pretty brutal, but nothing he couldn't handle. Just a bit of alcohol and he was okay. He was alone, completely alone, no siblings, no outside family, just him and whatever he ran across in the middle of the night that he automatically killed or exorcised. It wasn't always that way, no, he had a loving boyfriend and his boyfriend's brother; which he considered family. He had them for four years until they up and vanished a year or so ago with just a note that told him his boyfriend loved him. Four years of romance, love, sex, and all that good stuff, just to be ripped away in an instant. It doesn't matter, though, he didn't need anyone. He had been alone for a while now, so he was used to it; no one to worry about, but himself. No mum, no dad, no family, no boyfriend, and no boyfriend's brother.

Brandon shook the thoughts from his head as he put the lip of the glass of Jack Daniels to his lips and downed another drink. He was sitting in some run down bar off the exit, the lighting system was barely working, the bar stool was hardly holding him up, and the counter was made out of wood. The bar tender looked like she had just got out of a street fight and the other customers looked half as bad. He was currently in Cody, Wyoming, staying at a motel near by. Well, as near as a mile out. He carded his hand back through his shaggy blond hair, boring and dull brown eyes scanning across the inside of the building. Nothing out of the ordinary. No demons, no Rougarous, no angels, just regular plain people. It was a bit odd, a bit _normal_, but it was okay. At least, for now. He dropped his hands down against the table, palm up, and stared blankly at the way his calluses stood out; skin rough, dry, and covered in dirt. His nails were worn down to the nub and the skin around it was cracked. He looked like he was stuck in the middle of an apocalypse, but the apocalypse, that was just too funny of a thought.

He sighed and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and drug them down his face while the bar tender refilled his glass. When he looked at her, she offered what seemed to be a small smile of pity and went about her job. Pity, hah, if she only knew what he did as a "career path" and what he has done in his past. He was partially grateful to actually have someone pity him, just because he looked stressed and like he hadn't slept for days. Somewhat true. The last expressions he had been seeing were either ones of fear or of evil. He had left a scene earlier that evening where the fourteenth body was found, same grisly thing as usual. Police think it is some psycho serial killer that has a thing for torturing people, but Brandon knew. All the signs were there, the most obvious being the disgusting sulfur smell that was always around after a demon was present.

A sound from the door made him quickly look up and what he saw made his heart race ninety miles per hour, if that could even be possible. A man, about six foot two and another man just a bit shorter entered, walking up to the counter a few feet away. The taller man had long hair down almost to his shoulders, was dressed in a rather expensive-looking suit, and had the look of someone who had been through hell, or possibly had seen it in person. The other had shorter brown hair, was also dressed in a suit, had bowed out legs, and looked almost the same expression wise, except he had the face of a soldier. To the untrained eye, they just looked like a couple of businessmen who had just gotten done from a long shift at the office and needed a drink or two to help unwind, but Brandon knew different. They were hunters. He watched them curiously for a bit before going back to his drink. Why did they seem so familiar? Maybe he had run into them on a hunt, but he was always good with remembering who he had interacted with.

"Dean, that kid has been staring at you. Maybe he thinks you're hot," A voice hit his ears, which caused him to glance over quickly.

"Shut up, Sammy," Came the reply.

Dean. Sammy. Sam. _Winchesters_. That is why he felt he knew them. His ex-boyfriend and his brother were in the same damned bar with him. He quickly grabbed a twenty out of his pocket, slammed it down on the counter, and got out of his seat. He needed to leave that vicinity quickly. Those boys were the last people he ever wanted to encounter in his life. What were they doing here? Obviously they didn't recognise him or they would have said something, so Brandon wanted to keep it that way. He didn't look over his shoulder as he practically ran out, flinging the heavy door open and taking off around the side of the building. Close. Too close. He leant against the wall, breathing heavily, trying to calm down. His thoughts were racing, going over a younger image of Dean in his mind, someone he knew so many years ago. Dean left, though, left him alone and with no one to be there for him. That was how he lived and how he wanted it to stay.

He was too lost in his thoughts to realise the world around him, so he didn't notice someone walk up to him, knife out, and stand in front of him. He came back to reality when he was suddenly shoved into the wall and the knife was at his throat. _Fuck!_ He cursed, hands feeling around his person for a weapon. His gun dug into his lower back since for some stupid reason he decided to put his gun in the back of his pants. He had no defence, no means of escape, and no possible way of figuring out how to leave. Was it a demon? Couldn't be, they wouldn't have just kept him pinned like that. Shifter? Vampire? He was trying to swallow down his panic so he could think clearly. First, he needed to be able to see who was attacking him. He glanced up, but it was too dark to make out the features. He noticed they were significantly taller and had a strong grip. That was the only thing he could pick up on.

"Who are you? No, better yet, _what_ are you? Demon? Shifter? No one just runs out of a building like that. Why were you staring at my brother?" The person holding him there asked, digging the knife slightly into his throat.

It cut the skin, drawing a bit of blood, causing Brandon to hiss quietly from the pain. He knew that voice anywhere. Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester had him pinned against a building with a knife to his throat, ready to kill him. Obviously he didn't recognise him, which could be a good or bad thing, depending on how you looked at the situation. His breathing was picking up as he started to panic again, not liking being trapped like a terrified animal. He swallowed the best he could, fixed him with a hard stare, and willed him to remember him. This had to work. He looked ridiculously defeated, though, brown eyes looking very lifeless, completely seeming worn out. _Just please see who I am, Sam, please._ He mentally begged, trying not to look away. He was a tough hunter, but when it came to confrontation or old memories rushing at him, he shied away. The knife pressed in harder, forcing him to tilt his head upward and expose his neck more.

"Brandon, my name," There was a long pause as he swallowed again. "My name is Brandon and I am a hunter, much like yourself,"

The knife was pulled back a little bit, but Sam still held his ground. "Why were you looking at my brother? How do I know you're not lying?"

"I'm not lying, because you know me, Sam. I don't lie, not about that," Brandon replied, deciding it was better to tell the truth instead of lying.

"How, how do you know my name?" Sam growled after a long moment, seeing to be mulling over the response.

"Just think,"

"Jayden?"

"Yeah, Sam, it's me,"

The knife was suddenly pulled away and shoved back into wherever he could possibly hide it in a suit and he was yanked into a rather tight, nearly bone-crushing hug. It took a few moments to react, but he found himself wrapping his arms around him and hugging back. Sam held onto him for a decent amount of time, mumbling incoherent stuff against his neck, before he pulled back and looked him over. He suddenly turned Brandon so his back was against the light from a street pole, giving him a better view of the shorter man. All of his scars, the dirt, the destruction; it was all evident on what skin was showing. His blond hair was a mess and came down a little past his cheekbones, his lips were chapped and cracking, and his skin was covered in dirt and dry blood. He hadn't had a shower in a few days, so he probably smelt a bit bad, not to mention the alcohol was evident on his breath.

"You can't tell Dean," Brandon suddenly said, worried that Sam would immediately want to let his older brother know of this interaction with his ex.

"Why not? Jayden, we thought you were dead. A demon told us you were in hell," Sam replied, making a face of concern.

"It's Brandon, please call me Brandon. Jayden is in the past. Dean can't know because I don't want to upset him. He left for a reason and I can't put him through that. Well, I'm obviously alive. I haven't died or gone to hell, yet, so the demon lied to you. They do that often, why would you believe them?" He explained with an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry, Brandon. I'm just so glad you're alive. I don't know why we listened to him. It was stupid to trust one of those creatures," Sam said, pulling one of his ever-famous "bitch faces".

"Yeah, it really was. I have to go, though. Go back to my motel, shower, get this blood off of me, and continue with my hunt. It was nice seeing you, Sam. Stay safe out there," Brandon murmured, frowning slightly.

"You, too, kid. I promise I won't say anything. Your secret is safe with me,"

Brandon offered him a small smile and turned around, closing his eyes tightly for a moment as he attempted not to turn back, cling onto Sam, and cry. He wasn't like that, though, even though that is all he wanted to do. He glanced up at the light as it flickered a few times, the fuse wearing out, then went on his way, back to his car. He spotted Dean's 1967 Chevy Impala parked a bit further from his car, which caused him to smile, though he had to control himself so he wouldn't approach it and check it out again while Dean could be keeping a watchful eye over "Baby". It had been way too long. Sam's hair had only come to cover his ears and both of them still held onto their innocence. They hadn't been through too much in the beginning, but now, they looked like they didn't have an ounce of happiness left inside of them. They probably were as empty as he was.

He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets as he looked at the car, before turning around and walking to his own. It wasn't as beautiful to look at, but it got the job done. A silver 2010 Dodge Ram 1500. Maybe it wasn't a car. He shrugged and fished his keys out of his pocket, idly letting each key drop until he got to his car key. He stared at the door to his vehicle for a moment or two, then looked back at the bar. He would be leaving his only opportunity to speak to Dean Winchester again and get his questions answered, but did he _really_ want that? Were there any questions to ask any more? It all seemed so bleak and like he was just a bad memory, but maybe that was how it needed to be. He shook his head and unlocked the door, slipping inside, and put the key into the ignition. He turned the truck over and pulled out of the parking space, heading out onto the main drag.

His mind was clouded with thoughts and memories of the Winchesters, something he wish he never had to think about again. Maybe a good night's rest would help clear his mind. He did have to go back down to the coroner's office tomorrow and check out a couple bodies again. All though he knew the cause of the deaths and who did them in, he still felt the need to check over them again. Now, he just needed to know what demon it was, but as a fake FBI agent, he needed to always do a follow up. Dean had taught him well. Brandon swallowed down the painful memory and kept driving, flipping on the radio to help keep the thoughts at bay. Some new age band was blasting through his speakers, one he knew Dean would never like, but it helped. He didn't know who it was, but it didn't honestly matter. He just needed to get back to the motel. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel so he wouldn't grip it so tightly out of anxiety, keeping beat with the music. When that song finished, "Castle of Glass" by Linkin Park began to play, so he hummed along with it. At least he knew what that song was, so he could focus on that.

He flew through a red light without realizing it, but shrugged when no police were following him. Probably was too late and they were busy with the drunks. It was one am, so there was nothing to worry about. When he got to his motel, he sat in a parking space for a while, slumped back in the seat, staring out the passenger window. It was only when AC/DC started playing that he shut off the radio, turned off the truck, and got out. He locked it up, frowned, and carded his hand back through his hair. He glanced up at the LED sign that read "Motel 10", nodded once when he confirmed it was the right motel, and went up to the building. The outside was encased in white brick and it had a 60s feel to it, seemingly worn down, but it held up what it could. It was the third motel in the area, so people frequented it, usually if they couldn't afford the bed and breakfasts. Brandon worried his lip for a moment as he wondered if Sam and Dean were staying there, too, but what were the chances? It wasn't like Brandon was poor, nor were the boys, but he preferred keeping things low key. When he got to his room, "26", he opened the door with his key and went inside.

Floral wallpaper was peeling from the wall, the carpet was some rough crap bought because it was cheap and was so dirty that Brandon couldn't tell the original colour, and the lights were some disgusting incandescent bulbs that were filled with dirt and dead bugs. He always had wondered how they managed to get up inside of there, but it was a fleeting thought. He sat down on the bed, listening to the springs squeak in protest, and took off his boots. Once they were off and laying somewhere on the floor, he laid back against the mattress and closed his eyes. He laid there for a good five minutes before sitting back up, sighing heavily, and peeling his shirt off. It felt nice to be shirtless and the cooling air ran across one of his scars on his back, sending a shiver up his spine. It was a pretty nasty scar that went from his spine in a horizontal fashion and around his right side, stopping before it reached the front part of his body. It was pink and rather large, which he had earned from a Leviathan a few months back. He wanted to know where the Winchesters were, but why on earth would he know? Just because Dean and he dated so many years ago, did not mean he kept tabs on the brothers. The gash was a torture method, actually very painful, and he narrowly escaped with his life. If it wasn't for another hunter by the name of Sasha, he would have bled out quickly.

Sasha and he ran around for a couple weeks before she was killed by an Okami. She was a good friend to hang around with and he kept her photo in his wallet, but they weren't very close. Brandon went on his way, doing hunts across the country alone, which didn't bother him much, considering he had been alone for a long time. He never got into another relationship after Dean, although he had a few shags here and there. He knew Dean had gotten with someone named Lisa and more or less adopted a kid named Ben, but they didn't stay together long. Word always traveled fast about the Winchesters. Dean had an angel friend named Castiel, Sam was addicted to demon blood at one point, and they both had been killed numerous times. Apparently, the angel Castiel was the one who dragged Dean back from hell a couple months after he left Brandon. A Hellhound got to him or something and his soul got sent to hell, leaving him buried in the ground. A couple years down the road, he knew that Sam lost his soul, but he got it back, thanks to Death. There wasn't much that Brandon _didn't_ know, considering the Winchesters were becoming the most famous hunters in the world.

He chewed on his lip before standing up, stretching so his back popped, then shed his pants and socks. His fingers lingered over the band of his boxers, imagining Dean's hands there before he would take them off, until he shoved the idea aside and pulled them down. He kicked the clothes into a corner and shuffled to the bathroom, pushing the door open, and stepping onto the cold tile. He flexed his feet on it and looked at himself in the mirror, examining his wound, noticing it wasn't as bad as he originally had thought. _Oh well, it would heal quickly. Just another scar._ He thought, turning on the water and leaning on the counter as he waited for it to heat up. The moment steam billowed out from it, he stepped inside, and immediately went under the water. The warmth from it soothed the hunter, causing him to crack a smile as the grime and blood washed away from his skin. Now he looked a bit more like a human and probably smelt better, too. He took time washing his hair with the travel shampoo he picked up at a gas station along the way to town, proceeded to clean his body, and used some conditioner to make his hair softer. Couldn't rugged monster killers have nice hair?

When he accidentally dropped one of the bottles, he could have sworn he heard Dean's laugh from inside the bathroom, followed by some sex joke as he bent down to pick it up. When he pushed the curtain aside, he was alone, no sign of any other person there with him. He let out the smallest of whimpers, for some reason hoping he would have actually seen him, and sat down in the shower. He brought his legs up to his chest and rested his back against the wall, willing himself not to cry. Dean didn't want anything to do with him. He vanished without a trace, aside from the note. Why should he be upset over him? Granted, he had just seen him for the first time in _years_, interacted with Sam, and was caught staring, but it wasn't like he actually spoke to the older brother. He shouldn't cry, he shouldn't be upset, and his heart shouldn't ache like this. No matter how hard he tried, tears won over, and slipped down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away, much like the third night after Dean left, when he realized he wasn't coming back.

A choked sob left his mouth which made him quickly cover it, until he remembered no one was there with him. He dropped his hand and allowed himself to cry, deeming it normal to be upset over someone if you just saw them again after so long. They were in love and in a relationship; why wouldn't he be hurt? Brandon still had feelings for him, even though it seemed like his ex-boyfriend had moved on. _Probably shagging that angel._ His mind spat venomously, which only distressed him further. He let out a yell, tilting his head back, and closed his eyes. His face was red and disgusting because of the tears that were dripping off his chin, but he didn't care. He sniffled a few times before standing up, using the wall to support himself as he let the water wash away his pain. When he figured he could walk without collapsing, he shut off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel he had on the counter from yesterday morning, then dried off. His hair stuck to his head a bit as he wrapped the towel around his waist, but it wasn't entirely bothersome. He moved it away, though, and walked back to the room with a heavy heart. He dropped his towel and bent down, rummaging through his duffle bag, grabbing a hold of a pair of black boxers. He pulled them on slowly, sat down on the bed, and flipped on the small television. Some family drama was playing, so he laid back and crawled under the covers, watching it until he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three days since his last encounter with the Winchesters. It was obvious that Sam kept his word, considering that he hadn't even _heard_about them in seventy-two hours. This was his last night in town because he was wrapping up the case, so he would not stick around for much. He would find the next hunt and move on from there. Nothing in his life would ever change; he'd forever be a hunter. Brandon knew that, though, ever since his first kill when he was eight years old. That seemed a bit unusual and insane, how could a little child _kill_ something? It wasn't like he intended on doing that. He knew how to work a gun and his parents were trying to fight off other werewolves outside. The one that got through was trying to play some game with him, talking to him, probably distracting him before he would kill the young one. When the werewolf lunged, Brandon only remembered pulling the trigger and the loud ringing noise that followed. Of course the kickback knocked him on his ass, but he successfully put down the dog. His father had loaded the gun with silver bullets. Ever since then, since the moment he put lead - silver - into another being, he knew his life was forever changed. How did you escape being a hunter? It was always one step behind you, waiting for you to try to quit, then slamming you with a demon or another type of monster.

He ran his hand through his hair before putting it back into a short pony tail, staring out the windshield of his truck. All of his stuff was packed and the key returned to the front people, so he could just leave and not deal with any other issue. He left it in the same condition as when he arrived. He was rather exhausted and that showed, due to not being able to sleep well, no thanks to nightmares and who he ran into the other day. At least Sam he could handle. Dean, not so much. Of course his past would catch up with him eventually, he knew that, but he didn't expect it to be here and now. He rolled his shoulders to pop them and put the key in the ignition, bringing down the mirror in the sun visor and adjusted his neck tie. He was in a suit, pretending once again to be a federal agent. He had his fake badge in his jacket and he was freshly cleaned up for the part. His father never taught him much about faking his identity, so he learnt what he could from the four years of being with Dean Winchester. It stuck well, because seven years after meeting him, he could get into wherever he wanted. His hair was combed out, his teeth brushed, and he spritzed on some cologne he had picked up somewhere about a month ago. Brandon yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hands, then dug the heels into his eyes to wipe away the tiny amount of tears that formed in his eyes from the yawn. He cleared his throat, pushed up the visor, then put the truck into drive and pulled away from the motel.

He let out a heavy sigh, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, and letting his features fall into a hard stare as he got onto the main road. For some reason, he felt nauseated, almost as if something bad was going to happen. What was the worst that could, though? Death? Death was the sweetest and easiest thing that could ever happen to a hunter, but where you went after was the bad part. Did you go to heaven, hell, or were you trapped in purgatory? He had never believed in heaven or angels until he first heard of them and actually saw one. Demons were fairly easy to believe in, because it is easier to believe in the bad and not the good. All his life he grew up thinking that nothing good could come out of it and that the only thing you could experience were monsters. Heaven, peace, angels, kindness? That was all lost on Brandon. Of course it was. He had gone through so much, losing his boyfriend and best friend, losing his mother, his father basically abandoning him, and fighting things out of faerie tales and books. Nothing good happened to soldiers.

In the middle of driving, his phone went off, and when he fished it out of his pocket, he let out an exasperated deep breath and tossed it onto the seat next to him, ignoring it for the time being. The number did not have a name attached to it, so he knew it was the police department attempting to contact the special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. More information on the case that he didn't exactly want to deal with while he was heading to finish up said case. The stress was getting to him, but he didn't let it completely take over; that was for later - for the next time he had a break down in a god forbidden shower. He let go of the steering wheel with one of his hands, popped his knuckles on his thigh, then did the same with his other. He quietly groaned and cocked his eyebrow at the phone that was going berserk on the passenger seat. Might as well answer it. He chewed on his lip momentarily before grabbing it, checking the number, and pressing the green answer button.

"Finally you answer, Agent Hammett. Sorry to say, but a fifteenth body was just found. I'd like you to go see what is up, if you don't mind," The voice on the other line informed him, causing Brandon to visibly flinch.

"Sorry, was in the shower and left my phone on the bed. Where am I heading?" His voice rang with authority, almost like he was challenging them to question his reasoning for not answering.

"Uh, 43rd and Stapley. The address is 6051 North 43rd Street. Please get there as soon as possible,"

"Sure," Was his only response before he hung up. Fuck.

Of course there was another murder, demons don't rest. He loudly groaned and took the next left, heading toward the location. He knew where the intersection of the roads given was, so he didn't need to use his GPS. One of the better things about having a truck like this was it made it easier to pretend you were part of the FBI agency. He always wondered why no one gave Sam and Dean a second glance when they rolled up in a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. He assumed that the boys always came off as "ask and I will have your ass fired faster than you can run out on a call". The threatening way Dean was and the knowledge and quick talking of Sam always made Brandon admire them all the more. At least for the most part. He pulled onto the street where the incident had happened, parked near the police tape, and got out of the truck. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, locked up the vehicle, then proceeded to walk up to the yellow strip of police line. When approached, he quickly flashed his badge, and the officer moved up the line for him to go under. He scanned the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary aside from a murder scene, and ran his tongue across his lower lip slowly. It was all the same, a typical two story house, a shocked family being attended to by volunteers, crime scene investigators, and police.

Brandon narrowed his eyes in thought momentarily before he set on finding the police chief to get further details on the situation. He knew it would be the same as usual, but might as well check in to continue his fabrication. The commotion, radio talk, and orders being given nearly gave him a headache. His mind was already whirling, slamming thoughts in and them flying back out in an instant, and it took the chief coming up to him and waving his hand in the hunter's face to bring him back to reality. He offered a smile and was met by a cocked eyebrow and the officer shaking his head. Brandon looked the guy over, noting the greying hair, the tired blue eyes, the stress lines around them, and the wrinkles that formed around his mouth. He was wearing the typical dark navy blue uniform, no hat, black boots, and had a very obvious, shiny, and yellow badge on his chest.

"So, not sure why they called you down. Two of your men are already in there investigating the body. You guys sure like to swarm places," The older gentleman spoke, voice low and rough.

Brandon furrowed his eyebrows at the comment, nodding once to acknowledge what was said. "Uh yeah, not sure why your guys would send me down, either. Probably back up,"

He went around the chief and, rather casually, strolled up to the front door of the house, which was cracked open. His eyes scanned over the wooden make of it, oak, before he pushed it open and stepped inside. Voices from another room had him going to investigate, though he was on guard, the feeling from before still somewhat evident. He cautiously rounded the corner into the area the others were in, stopping to stand next to the door jam. He surveyed the scene from afar, taking in all that was around, which was the same as usual. A mutilated body, blood, and other suits. Suits. That was right, they had other FBI agents here, but these weren't your every day agents, oh no. One happened to give a moose a run for his money and the other was somewhat shorter and a bit stockier. Brandon swallowed, clenched his fists, and listened in on their conversation. Something about some kid who had summoned a demon to do his bidding and cleaned up any evidence that was left behind, including the sulphur. It was obvious that the two were none other than the Winchester boys; why wouldn't they be there? They must have been on the same hunt.

The minute Sam turned around, his eyes automatically lit up as they landed on Brandon. He was about to smile until Dean's attention was caught and he looked over his shoulder to see what his younger brother was so excited about. Brandon's breathing picked up and he was about to panic, until Dean punched Sam in the arm and told him to pay attention to work and not others. The sad look on the taller man's face and the small shrug he gave almost made him want to approach Dean and let him know who he was. He couldn't do it, though, out of his own fear. Monsters he could handle, confrontation, he could not. He righted himself, went over to the body, and examined it up close. He could feel the brother's eyes boring into his back, but he ignored it, for now. He pulled a white powdered Latex glove out of his jacket pocket, slipped it on over his left hand, and gently prodded at the torn skin. Same as usual, nothing different. He worried his lip for a moment, before shrugging, and turning around.

"Well, it looks the same as always. What do you guys think?" His voice shook as he spoke, but he tried to keep it together as best as possible.

Sam looked worried, but responded. "Yeah really, I think it is some insane serial killer. You know, ones with weird fetishes for intestines,"

Brandon let out a sigh of relief through his nose, silently thanking the younger Winchester from not giving the impression that he was a hunter.

"Or, you know, a demon. Sam, come on. This kid's a hunter. Look at the way he holds himself and the look on his face. It's as clear as day," Dean's counter cut through the air like a steak knife.

He flinched at the words, glancing to the other, hoping for some sort of back up. "Uh, I doubt it, Dean. We're the only hunters around for miles,"

"No, he's a hunter. The kid has seen things, man. Look at his eyes," Dean replied, slowly coming near Brandon, who slowly backed up.

"This isn't necessary sir, please leave me alone. You're insane. _Demons?_ You know those are fake, right?" His rebuttal nearly fell through due to the fact that he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin.

When his shoulders hit the wall behind him, he had to bite back a whimper, and Sam was currently trying to get him to back down.

"You suck at lying, Jayden. A good agent, but a shitty liar,"


End file.
